


the love you gave is lost

by The_Wonderful_Jinx



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Awkward Sexual Situations, Drunk!Strand, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunkenness, F/M, Gen, Non-Consensual Touching, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, alex deserves better, strand is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 21:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/pseuds/The_Wonderful_Jinx
Summary: Alex Reagan takes great pride in being a reliable emergency designated driver with no “mother hen” lecture to come with it, but she’s also grateful for the fact that her friends don’t abuse her generosity. Dr. Strand, on the other hand, seems to have missed that memo...





	the love you gave is lost

Alex Reagan is no stranger to getting phone calls in the middle of the night from drunken friends asking her for a ride home. She rather have her sleep disrupted than waking up in the morning to find a police officer at her door, telling her said friends are in jail, a hospital, or dead.

She makes it a point to remind everyone in the PNWS office -from Nic, the producers, and even the interns (she too was a college student who took liberties with the rules on alcohol and drugs)- that she will always pick someone up from a bar or club if they drank too much or partook in any other substances. No questions, no judgment, no shame, and no need to pay her back. She takes great pride in being a reliable source for a ride with no “mother hen” lecture to come with it, but she’s also grateful for the fact that they don’t abuse her generosity. 

Dr. Strand, on the other hand, seems to have missed that memo, racking up twelve calls over a span of two months.

When she gets the thirteenth, text message from him at eleven pm, asking her to pick him up from a dive bar she hasn’t even heard of, she considers calling an UBER for him and going back to bed instead. She’s half-way finished with the request when guilt and shame hit her like a stray baseball in the gut.  She stops and rewrites it. When she sends it in, she slips out of bed and shivers, her bare arms and legs missing the embrace of the sheets. She grabs whatever clothes are clean off the back of her chair.

She used to panic, dash out as soon as she got a text from him. But now, she knows she can take her time, no matter how dire his messages read, it’s never as bad as he puts it. She knows he’s fine and that he’ll wait. 

She’ll take the ride to the bar; she’ll leave in Strand’s car.

* * *

 

When she gets there, Strand is outside, swaying in the light breeze. His eyes are focused on the cloudy night sky, watching the rolling clouds with child-like awe. When he notices her, he waves her down gleefully, like two friends reuniting after years of separation. His cheeks are pink and his smile is infectious, boyish and bright. His lips are stained a scandalous red. The buttons on his collar are undone, revealing a pink flush creeping down his neck. His tie is loose. He looks happy, in a “hot mess” sort of way.

She sighs, preparing herself for a long night, and forces a smile.

She picks up the keys from the bartender, offers an apology, and herds Strand into the car. When she adjusts the seat to her liking, they leave. They pass by all her favorite haunts. Alex thinks of dropping him off at one and making him someone else’s problem, but she’s not that callous. Duty made her come here, even though she hates playing babysitter.

 A bottle of wine sits in the cup holder, uncorked and half-finished. Its presence taunts her, but she ignores it. Strand has never told her where he got it or how long he’s been drinking from it, he won’t start now. It sloshes gently every time she makes a turn, navigating through pedestrians, club-goers, and lost tourists. The green bottle shimmers and turns into a little disco ball, neon lights of the nightlife bouncing off its glossy surface.

She wants to throw it out the window, but she doesn’t. It looks too expensive and she doesn’t want to add littering to her laundry list of crimes.

Strand talks while she drives. She’s dealt with chatty drunks before; she herself is one of them. But Alex is the kind that only needs a drink or two to get a buzz, just enough to loosen up and make friends with the newcomers in the bar. Strand is desperate for attention, the kind that says too much, too loudly, and is never ashamed of it.

He talks about Coralee, the good days.  He recalls how they met and fell in love, a courtship full of urban legends, ghost stories, and poetry. He talks about the park where he proposed to her. He talks about the mad rush of wedding plans. He says he has a picture of Charlie in her little flower girl dress clinging to her mother’s long, heirloom veil as they walked down the aisle. He keeps it in a photo album back in his office in Chicago.

(She can parrot back this speech, line for line. Sometimes she hears it in her sleep; it’s that ingrained into her memory.)

Coralee talked him into having a church ceremony, with all the trappings that came with it, priestly blessings and all. He takes a quick sip from the bottle, before admitting he has no idea what made him -the staunch atheist- acquiesce to such a request.

“Love makes fools of us all,” Alex says. Strand laughs, loud enough to make her wince. He used to like Shakespeare; Coralee had a collection of the bard’s sonnets that she would read to him at night.

His alcohol coaxed words and the heady scent of grapes forms a miasma in the air that makes her gag. It reminds her of blackouts in college and it tastes like desperation. She swallows, desperate for clean air.

He transitions to his “fucking bastard” of a father, a subject she’s keener in listening in than memories of his marriage. It’s partly a want to change the subject, but it’s mostly out of morbid fascination. Even though she knows it’s coming, every time Strand recalls the bite of a belt buckle meeting his arms and back, she winces. He thinks Cheryl got the best treatment, that she was only ever slapped or yelled at if she mentioned the shadow figures. He sounds bitter, envious even.

She tells herself it’s just the wine and nods along. It’s easier that way.

The dashboard clock reads midnight. It doesn’t feel like midnight to her. Midnight is supposed to be exhilarating, full of potential mischief and adventure. It’s a time for sharing stories, beer, and secrets, stealing kisses, and making love in the backseat.  

Instead, it feels more like six am and all the night’s regrets are hitting her like a vintage muscle car. Time never feels right when Strand is around. She considers the fact that she’s not a college student anymore. Not able to recover as quickly. She feels older, more responsible, even if her journalism ethics are spotty. She knows she can’t drive or listen to Strand forever, but if having to deal with a drunken Strand is punishment for her shady journalism practices, it’s a penance she’ll take.

Besides, if she doesn’t take care of him, who will? She can handle him.

She rolls down her window. The cool wind nips at her cheeks and ruffles Strand’s hair. The clean air revitalizes her, makes her more awake, more alert to her surroundings like Strand sporting a mischievous smile and his hand creeping ever closer to her thigh. A first. She narrows her eyes and swats his hand away. Strand recoils, a fierce blush blossoming in his cheeks and rushing down his throat

“Don’t,” she says.

He bows his head. He keeps quiet and his hands folded on his lap for the rest of the drive.

When they make it back to his house, she helps him out of the car. He wobbles like a newborn horse, nearly overbearing her as she half-drags, half-carries him up the porch steps. She struggles with the keys and the lock, trying to keep Strand, the wine bottle in her hand, and herself from crashing down.

Strand starts talking again, his proud (if slurred) voice made louder by the wine drowns out the cicadas in the nearby woods. He talks about his mother. Saint of a woman, she apparently was for _not_ breaking down earlier than expected. She held out, enduring lonely days, her strange children, and the neighbors’ rumors that spawned from his father’s absence. Her health was already troublesome, but he and Cheryl were prepared to rely on themselves and each other: cooking, laundry, ironing, and cleaning. Once upon a time, not knowing the context of how he acquired the skills most men of his generation were lacking in, Alex would have applauded his diligence. With the way he’s talking now, it feels like he’s fishing for a compliment.

She gets them inside, guiding and depositing him on the refurbished couch. She commands him to sit to make him stay on the couch so she can find something for them to eat in peace. Everyone jokes that Strand has a personality of a cat, but she’s willing to argue that he’s a dog with separation anxiety.

She doesn’t trust herself to use the stove. All she can come up with is toast and peanut butter. She gives him three slices and a glass of water. Strand eats like a starving man, wolfing down each piece in two bites. He downs the water with a single gulp. She nibbles on her toast. She finds the peanut butter sticking to her throat, making it hard to swallow. The wine bottle tempts her, but she sticks to water instead.

When he’s finished, he talks about his childhood and his friends. These stories are more pleasing to listen to, even entertaining. He recalls the river-side bike path they would tear up on the weekends. If it was raining the day before, they would have mud stripes on the back of their t-shirts that their mothers hated washing out. He mentions the fights he would get into trying to protect his friends: the glasses he broke. There is an undercurrent of smugness in his voice that makes her doubt the legitimacy of his stories and ruins the fun, even though there is a witness that can back Strand up. She lets it pass, people -no matter their age- will always brag about their childhood adventures.

She wonders -had she been born at the right time- if she would’ve been friends with ‘Richie’ and his group. Were they the kind open-minded enough to let girls play with them, or were they too plagued by the incessant “girls equal cooties” logic? The possibility of Strand, empirical and exact, believing in cooties makes her smile. She can’t judge, she used to believe she could talk to cats when she was a child.

When Bobby Maimes comes up, he goes quiet. His eyes well with tears, but he quickly wipes them away and takes a long swig from the bottle. He leaves a few inches left. He ponders it for a moment before he hands the bottle to her. She takes it, but sets it beside the couch. Her college-slash-cheapskate self chastises her for turning down free wine. Someone has to be a responsible adult, she thinks, trying to ignore the bitter edge her inner-voice has.

Then he talks about her. Any other day, Alex would be ecstatic to earn a compliment from the ever-so stoic and closed-off Dr. Richard Strand. Now, after all these late night pickups, it’s lost its appeal.

He sings her praises, applauds her intelligence, and exalts her damnable determination. Not once does he blame her for all the trouble she knows she brought upon his life. It sounds and feels genuine, but at the same time, it doesn’t. She knows he’d never say all this while sober. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

 _Drunk words are sober thoughts_ , she thinks, she pushes that thought aside.

Still, drunken praises are better than drunken rants. She’d take this over Strand yelling at her (drunk or sober) any day. So she listens, even though she knows, deep within her gut, this praise is under false pretense.

“Eleven calls,” he says, his smile widening as his tie slips off his shoulders. “I usually block numbers after three, yet something-” He hiccups. “Something about you Miss Reagan...”

“If I suggest ‘fate,’ are you going to counter with ‘apophenia’?” she says. She means it as a joke, to sober him up, but he looks thoughtful as though it’s a viable suggestion.

“At this point, Alex, I’ll believe anything you say,” he replies, licking his lips with debauched candor.

The intimacy hinted at the usage of her first name makes her shiver, even though the house is warm.

He stares at her with an intensity that makes her question if he’s really drunk and has been toying with her all this time. It’s a look she’s grown accustomed to. Strand studies people like jewelers do to gems, appraising how they could be of value to him, finding the tiniest of flaws and imperfections that would give him an excuse to discard them. His face is impassive, stone-like. She’s impressed he can muster up a poker face with all that he consumed.

Finally, the collected façade breaks into a smile that makes him look younger twenty years younger, the stress that weighed him down vanishing. He reaches out and places his hand on her cheek. His skin is feverishly warm.

“I love you, Alex,” he says, his voice soft and gentle.

This is the thirteenth time he’s said it. It never fails to make her heart skip a beat.

His eyes gleam with drunken truth and he move closer to her, slow and deliberate.  Her heart pounds rapidly. The hand on her cheek trails down to caress her neck and the other hand rests on her waist, as though preparing to pull her into a kiss. But she knows he won’t. He buries his face into her shoulder, his lips ghosting over her collarbone. He whispers over and over again just how good she for him and how he doesn’t deserve the kindness she showed him despite his numerous fuck ups.

The scent of spoiled grapes clings to his breath, more overpowering here than in the car. He has a voice for radio, an opinion shared by many in the studio. Now she wishes he’d shut up like in the early days when they first met. Anytime the discussion veered into personal territory, he’d give her the silent treatment until she put it back on course; that was when he didn’t trust her enough to open up and kept their conversations short and professional.

His fingers dig into her body, hard enough to leave a bruise or two. He sobs, his tears hot and heavy on her skin.

“You’re all I have, Alex,” he says.

Come hell and high water; whether he admits it or not, they know he will always end up running back to her. In the early days of playing babysitter, she was honored that someone like Richard -independent to a fault- trusted her to take care of him in such a vulnerable state. Now it feels like a chore.

He raises his head, the tips of their noses just barely touching. She can taste wine off his breath and the salt of his tears. It’s sour, bitter, and needy. He can close the distance between them with ease. Instead, he wavers and licks his lips, waiting for permission. She half-wishes he’d do it just to go off script, give her something different to deal with, but she promptly scolds herself for that. It would be taking advantage of him, and she’s done enough of that while he’s sober.

“I love you,” he says, as though repeating it will convince her. Maybe if he wasn’t drunk. Maybe if they were normal people that met under normal circumstances. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She can spend hours in bed daydreaming about the maybes in her life, but she has to focus on what’s really happening.

 “You’re drunk, Richard,” she says, getting up off the couch. Usually, Strand lets her go -albeit with some petulant whining and moaning- and she returns home. This time, he holds on to her, his large hand swallowing her wrist. It doesn’t hurt, but its firm. His words slur again, but she can make out ‘not drunk’, ‘not a liar’, and ‘don’t go’ from his rapid begging.

 “Stay with me,” he says. His eyes are watery, far from the sharp, attentive blue from earlier and when they first met. He squeezes her wrist, not to break it or scare her, but to let her know he is serious. “Stay, please.”

He gets up too, still shaky, but not at the risk of falling. He pulls her towards the stairs, gentle but strong. She has to lean back on her heels to keep them still.  

“I’m able,” he says, louder than before. He fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. He gets about half-way before he gives up. His breathing is ragged and heavy, filling the empty air around them. “Not young, but I’m able!. Let me show you. Let me prove it.”

He pulls again, like an excited toddler that wants to show her a rock collection. Yet again, she doesn’t budge. She doesn’t doubt his promises of pleasure in his bed, but she knows it won’t do them any good.

“No,” she says. She pulls her arm away from his grasp with more force than necessary. Strand stares at her, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, but he doesn’t try to touch her.

“Stay?” he asks, barely above a whisper. His pride and bluster leave him. He holds his hands up as though he’s praying to her. “If anything, just stay.”

She almost feels sorry for him. Not enough to share a bed, but enough to stay.

They sit down on the couch, occupying opposite ends. He continues talking through the night and she makes herself stay awake, for his sake. When Strand finally passes out, she takes the herculean task of getting his unconscious body into his bed. She pushes every muscle past its limit to get him up the stairs.

It never gets easier.

Then why do you do it, she thinks.

* * *

 

Morning comes and Strand wakes up in bed, still clothed, but lying on top of the duvet and the flannel blankets. He finds himself clinging to a pillow. His glasses sit on the dresser with a glass of water and two painkillers. His head is heavy and throbs with every step he takes. He makes it two paces out of his bed before his stomach lurches, filling his throat with the familiar taste of bile, and makes a mad dash for the bathroom. (The door, thankfully, already open.) After emptying the content of his stomach in the toilet, he washes up, trying to make himself presentable. He brushes his teeth until his gums bleed and he uses more mouthwash than recommended, not even bothering to water it down.

He changes into a clean button down and khakis. The house feels colder, so he slips on a forest green sweater Melissa and Ruby bought for him for Christmas. He examines himself in the mirror, combs his hair with his fingers, puts on his glasses, and swallows the painkillers. Once he’s happy with his looks, he braves the journey downstairs.

His mouth is raw and his throat rough from stomach acid and too-strong mouthwash. With every step, he feels a fresh burst of pain behind his eyes and his stomach churns. He swears he can see stars, but he presses on. Something inside of him urges him on. He has to _know_.

He finds what he’s looking for in the living room: Alex sleeping on the couch, using her arm as a pillow and her sweatshirt serving as a makeshift blanket. Her face is scrunched up in frustration, her body tense like a rope seconds from snapping. Nightmares, probably. The urge to touch her, to comfort, rises in his heart. He reaches out to touch her shoulder, but he resists. He pulls back from her. Not without her permission, he thinks.

All he can recall from last night was that Alex drove him back and they had toast for dinner. The rest is all a blur, but he’s certain he didn’t do or say anything stupid. Alex Reagan is _here_. That’s all the proof he needs.

He walks quietly into the kitchen and makes her breakfast, a tradition of theirs and as consolation for her having to deal with him. It’s only good manners, he thinks. Who doesn’t love to wake up to the scent of pancakes and coffee being made?

Despite a headache screaming at him to go back to bed and hide underneath the covers, he manages to make a decent batter and pour it evenly into the pan. He even manages to flip it twice without dropping it. By the time he puts it on a plate, Alex shuffles into the kitchen, mumbling a terse hello, and rubbing sleep from her eyes. He pulls out a chair and helps her into her seat. She looks like she’ll fall asleep again any moment.

He gives a cup of coffee (three sugars, no milk, just the way she likes her morning cup), syrup, a fork, and a knife. Perhaps with a little more flourish than needed, but the small smile she gives is worth it.

“There’s no butter in the fridge,” he says.

“I can live with margarine,” she says.

“I’m out,” he says. His blood boils. He’d be damned to give her that poor excuse of imitation food. She deserves better than that.

Alex just nods, pours more syrup on her pancake, and eats.

When he’s done cooking, he sits across from her at the table. She’s half-way done, eating faster than he expected. He smiles, the remnants of courage the wine gave still bubbling in his system. She smiles too, but it’s weak and sober. Exhaustion, he reasons. He knows what can perk her up, even better than her favorite coffee.

“I have a lead for us to follow,” he says.

She takes two bites of her pancake and three sips from her coffee. It’s a slow process, waiting for her to register his words, but it’s dazzling to watch to watch the light bulb slowly flicker on in her eyes. Today, however, it takes longer than he likes.

“Are you free to go hiking sometime this week?” he says.

He never starts with a massive information dump, it’s uncouth. He’s learned that parsing out information helps her keep her attention. Not that it wavers when he goes on tangents, of course, but he it leaves room for her to ask questions. He used to dislike it, having to slow down to let her catch up, but he likes it now, this back and forth method they developed. It’s fun, like teaching an excited class.

But it takes two to tango, and his partner isn’t warmed up yet. She continues eating without acknowledging him. He sighs, he’s annoyed, but he isn’t angry. He could never be angry with her, the one who takes him home when he misjudges his alcohol tolerance. She’s done so much for him. He wishes he can remember all of it.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he says.

She finishes her pancake and for the first time, she looks at him. She regards him an impassive expression that makes him uneasy. But then she nods slowly.

“Rough night,” she replies.

“Do you want me to continue,” he says. “Or would you rather go home and rest up? I can email you later.”

She waves her hand. “Keep going, I’m listening.”

Encouraged, he dives in. He talks about plans for the future of the podcast: mostly the research process and travel. He has a fair idea of how it can turn out, but it’s all subject to change if the lead he has now -a book collector taking a sabbatical in the woods- is serious. It’s all discussions they had earlier, or so he thinks, but he does it for the sake of it. He likes talking to her. He feels peaceful in her presence. All the ideas come together cohesively when she’s around him.

She’s a wonderful listener. He refuses to imagine where he would be without her.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back in the fanfic writing saddle again my friends! I hope you all enjoyed it! Don't be afraid to leave a comment!
> 
> Special thanks to [ZombieBabs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs) for beta-reading!
> 
> title from the lyrics ["The Cave" by SIAMÉS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HlCkjjSddyY)
> 
> original version of this fic can be found [here](http://the-wonderful-jinx.tumblr.com/post/160380621199/after-coralee-leaves-strand-drinks-sleeps-and)


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